


If asked to describe him

by tip_of_the_Q



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Branjie, Hurt, M/M, metaphors and sadness and stuff, rpdr fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18721780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tip_of_the_Q/pseuds/tip_of_the_Q
Summary: There are only so many times you can answer the same questions, before you start to wonder what the truth actually is.Or;Brock doesn't particularly like being interviewed about Jose.





	If asked to describe him

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure sadness, sorry boys.
> 
> But like, try to enjoy it anyways?
> 
> Word count: 1228

There are only so many interviews Brock can do before he starts to wonder if he’s even moving from state to state, or if he’s merely stuck in some sort of mental limbo. The same old questions playing on repeat, the same generic answers tumbling from his lips. The lines he’s practiced in front of the mirror countless time, watching day by day as his eyes fall further into his face and his smile grows weary. The bags under his eyes and the frown lines that crinkle his forehead aren’t anything his foundation won’t cover, but his smile cannot be faked.

 

It is grim and it is teeth that are bared in an attack as opposed to a welcome.

 

He shifts in yet another uncomfortable chair, feeling the weight of words that are not quite lies within his chest. He feels as useless as a condom dispenser in the Vatican, knowing that no matter what way the man in front of him spins the questions, he won’t receive an answer that isn’t already to be found online.

 

“We all know the public personas that you both put on - but what’s he like in private?”

 

_ He is a barking dog, pulling at its collar. He is a late-night talk about broken homes and teeths pulled by slamming doors. He is shotgun beautiful, he is the human equivalent of lying in the middle of the highway. _

 

“He’s wonderful,” he says. “He’s great.”

 

_ He is the ninth time he tries to quit smoking. He is never lonely, a cacophony of alluring words and reckless laughter. He is the ending of missing someone. _

 

“So, we saw in the show that it happened quite quickly between the two of you. When did you first know you were attracted to him?”   
  
  


_ When he looked at him from across the room, sparkling like the sun. He was brought back to standing beneath smoldering spot lights, blinded but elated. _

 

“We just kind of, developed a crush on each other, I guess. I can’t pinpoint a moment in particular.”

 

_ When he drilled his eyes into mine and told me he was not going to go home, that he was not giving up. When he told me that he would not allow me to become a distraction.  _

 

“I think, and the fans think so too, that’s it obvious on screen how much you care for each other. Are people reading too much into it, or is there really a connection there?”

 

_ He gravitated towards him like he was on one of those rides at the funfair, where you’re spinning so fast that the motion fixes you to the wall. He tied them together with barbed wire and told him it was threads of silk. _

 

He hears A’keria’s voice in his head, hears his fellow queen describe how they had definitely established something genuine, something real that couldn’t be faked, even for the purpose of increasing TV ratings.

 

“I think we definitely had a connection that allowed us to help each other out a lot. It was unexpected, but it was nice to have someone there.”

 

_ They mixed like rum and coconut, one hard to swallow without the other. They were cool skin and melted wax, pleasure and pain caught in a cautious dance.  _   
  


“So, how are you guys now? Still together, if I may ask?”

 

_ He is the storm that blasts through the calm, and him, well he is the ocean that is stirred and broken off in waves, crashing into houses and gardens and tearing it all up. He is an itch in his bones, a redwood that sprouts in his heart. _

 

“You’ll have to watch the show to see what happens,” he shrugs, and his smile feels like an open wound. The audience boos, and it resonates within his brain. It’s doing its own booing these days.

 

_ He is the tenth time he starts smoking. He is nights filled by dirty counters and dirty martinis. He is the beginning of missing someone. Together they are limp rose petals and unfertilized soil. _

 

“We heard rumors that he was with someone else this january. Is this true?”

 

_ The pictures were the aftershocks of a powerful earthquake, one too mighty to be measured on any scientific scale. They were a reminder of mouthfuls of forever and cheeks stained with pain.  _

 

“I don’t particularly listen to rumours,” his tone is pointed, and the stare he fixes the interviewer with is not just a warning - it’s a threat.

 

_ He is days spent in self-imposed isolation. He is a prison, an inconsistency so vile and all-encompassing.  _

 

“Right,” the interviewer smiles, an apology. “Well, no matter what, I know we’re all excited to see where this story takes us.”

 

_ There are moths swarming in the abandoned cavity of his chest, because he is the creation of life and the hand that chokes him. He is the violent mutilation of the human heart. _

 

“As you should be,” he winks at the camera, hoping none of the dread he feels can be read on his face.

 

_ Dread was never a feeling he experienced in his arms, and he didn’t have the time to feel it before it all ended. He was Icarus, filled with hubris and flying towards heights no mortal had previously reached. _

 

“Thank you, Brooke Lynn Hytes!” the interviewer rounds of their talk, professional enough to know when his guests are done. He shakes his hand politely, and walks of the stage to a thunderous applause. It does nothing to him.

 

_ It hurts to be human without him. _

 

He sits in his dressing room afterwards, wiping away makeup and tears. He smokes a cigarette and listens to the people mindlessly milling around him. He puts out the cigarette at the order of a crew member, but the taste of smoke lingers on his tongue long after.

 

_ He is the eloquent language of winter, and the snowstorm that covers every muscle in his body in slippery black ice.  _

 

There’s too much light in his apartment as he comes back home days later, and he knows he is not alone. There’s the scent of black pepper in the air, forcing its way into his nostrils. There’s black hair and soft fingertips, lingering ghosts that should have been banished months ago.

 

_ He ebbed, he flowed. He ran across his tongue like a river, only bitter and salty in the days that they separated. He had been honeycomb and orange flavoured dark chocolate once. _

 

His bed is empty, and he cuddles his cats without much care, the emptiness of his ceiling a welcome companion. He wonders where he might be tonight. If he’s equally as lonely, if he is even half as full of regret as himself. He hopes so.

 

_ He would suffer all over again, if only it meant he could be loved so fiercely once more. He would tread the coal barefooted, until his feet were covered in blisters, if only he could soothe them in the reflecting pools of his comfort. _

 

These are the worst nights. The ones were no one is there to distract him from the nightmares that plague him at all times. Only in his sleep, does he find relief. It finds him easy, once his throat stops burning from the gin.

 

He falls asleep, and he dreams of barking dogs and rotting apples, abandoned by the roots of a redwood.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> Feel free to leave me some constructive criticism.


End file.
